


Nothing Out There

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Van Helsing (2004)
Genre: Community: story_lottery, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-08
Updated: 2010-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-08 18:55:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carl sits in the creeping fog of Hyde Park and tries to convince himself that there's nothing out there. Takes place during the events of <i>The London Assignment</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Out There

**Author's Note:**

> For prompt 03, 'a park bench' on round 3 of story_lottery

If anyone had asked Carl how he preferred to spend his Saturday nights, top of the list would be inventing something mechanical. Close behind it would be investigating the properties of certain viscous materials, followed by reading the _Legenda Aurea_ for the more salacious parts of the lives of the saints. He was fairly certain that nowhere on this hypothetical list would be the entry 'sitting on a park bench in the fog in Hyde Park'.

And yet that was where he was, at the request of Gabriel Van Helsing.

Carl shuffled along the bench until he sat directly in the middle. He'd spent the last two hours measuring the length of the bench with his backside. Not that he knew how big his backside was, exactly, but he estimated that if he could clone himself four and a half times, he—they?—would be able to sit quite comfortably together. Or at least, they would if the weather wasn't so cursed inclement.

The bench was damp. It had been wet when Gabriel had instructed him to sit on it, and as the afternoon slid into the evening, Carl's wide skirts had mopped up the raindrops from the shiny green paint. The fog brought a fine mist of water droplets that settled on everything—the bushes, the grass, the footpath, Carl's clothes, the trailing ends of the ribbons on his bonnet, and the bench. Whenever Carl shifted position, his hands slid on the slippery surface of the painted wood, or he'd catch his fingers on the chilly wrought-iron supports curved around the seat.

Carl sat back and swung his feet, more to restore the circulation than from any desire to look coquettish. Not that there was anyone around to notice him being coquettish, even if that had been his intention. He extended his legs in front of him and pulled up the brown and maroon skirts until he exposed the froth of white petticoats. A little higher, and he caught a glimpse of his ankle boots. Black leather, a glossy shine, a silver buckle on the side, a tiny heel. They were very nice boots. Maybe the Vatican would let him keep them after he and Gabriel had completed their London assignment.

Then again, Cardinal Jinette would probably have a seizure at the thought of Carl wearing women's clothing. Perhaps it would be better if they omitted that little detail from their final report.

"The end justifies the means," Gabriel had said yesterday as he'd pulled tight the lacings of the corset and adjusted the padding to give Carl a more pleasing likeness of a feminine bosom. "If we catch Mr Hyde, no one will care if you wore a dress or a sack in order to do it."

"A friar's robes do actually resemble both a dress and a sack," Carl had said thoughtfully, his sentence ending on a squeak. "Please be careful, Van Helsing—I would appreciate it if you left me a little room to breathe."

"Don't be such a girl."

Carl thought he made a poor substitute for a female, but in the two days he'd been wearing his disguise, he'd had almost as many offers as he'd had successful inventions. Doubtless this was due to the fact that his costume was, so Gabriel reliably informed him, that of a woman of loose morals and fewer inhibitions. Not that Gabriel described it in those terms. He simply said that Carl looked like a ha'penny whore.

It was really quite invigorating to be dressed in this fashion, even if Carl thought the colours of his frock were rather dull for such a profession. However, the interest he'd received from men of all classes had opened his eyes to realities he'd never imagined. When he got back to Rome, he'd have to spend a fortnight on his knees in the confession box just to clear his mind of the shockingly improper suggestions that had come his way.

The thought warmed him rather more than it should, and he dropped his skirts, covering his ankles and smoothing the cloth across his knees. Carl wished he'd brought something to read. _Legenda Aurea_ for preference, but even a newssheet would have been welcome. Not that he could have read much in this perpetual twilight, anyway. The fog, clammy and thick and tinged the exact shade of the phlegm expelled by the sufferer of a heavy cold, swirled around him in constant motion, blocking the feeble glow of the gaslight one moment and then eddying away to yield a snatch of brightness the next.

He huddled down on the bench and watched the fog curve and meander into different patterns. His costume didn't include a pocket watch, and since the arrival of the fog, he'd lost all sense of the time. It was evening, but whether it was six o'clock or ten o'clock, he had no idea. He hoped it was closer to ten o'clock, as although that would mean he'd been sitting on this damnable bench for close on six hours, it also meant that Gabriel would come and fetch him soon, and they'd eat a hot dinner and retire to their rented lodgings where at last Carl would be able to get warm.

The thought of food and bed cheered him, and Carl whistled for a moment before he remembered it was unladylike to whistle. He hummed instead, then stopped when he thought he heard a sound.

He turned his head, listening. The fog did strange things to the hearing, distorting or muffling noises, making footsteps echo and making whispers carry great distances, then silencing everything.

"There's nothing out there," he said aloud in an attempt to convince himself it was true. His voice quavered. Carl wrinkled his nose. It was a poor show indeed if he couldn't believe his own words. He tried again, injecting confidence into his tone. "There's nothing out there in the dark, hiding in the fog. This is all a monumental waste of time."

Silence shrouded him, draping over the bench in a blanket of cold, wet mist.

"It is, you know," Carl continued, feeling braver. "I do quite enjoy getting dressed up like this, but it's still a waste of time. I said it was a silly idea, laying a trap for Mr Hyde in Hyde Park. Really, how silly is that? If I had a park named after me, I wouldn't hang about in it all day. Not that Hyde Park is named after Mr Hyde. At least, I don't think it is. I could be wrong. I often am, about some things. But I'm sure about this—we won't catch Mr Hyde in Hyde Park."

He paused. Silence, save for the gentle drip of water, the shuffle of his boots on the gravel beneath the bench, and the sound of his heartbeat. Somehow, the silence seemed more threatening now. Carl wished he hadn't started talking to himself. In order to feel safe, he'd have to keep on talking to himself.

Something rustled in a nearby bush. Carl looked around, peering through the fog to where it merged with the darkness. He tried to recollect what lay in that direction. "Hello?" he called, hoping he sounded braver than he felt. "Is there anybody there? I mean, you're probably just a bird or a squirrel, but just in case you're not some harmless creature of God's kingdom, I should let you know that I'm not, in fact, a woman of dubious morals but a representative of His Holiness the Pope..."

The bird or squirrel or whatever it was made no further sound, clearly impressed by his credentials.

He tried to settle back on the bench, but couldn't shake off the suspicion that something was watching him. He told himself it wasn't Mr Hyde, but then he remembered Gabriel's comforting words as they parted this afternoon. "There are other things out there in the night," he'd said. "Mr Hyde is an annoyance, but he's not the worst foe I've encountered."

Carl had decided not to ask for a comprehensive record of Van Helsing's adversaries. Now he wished he'd at least enquired about a basic list, because surely it was better to know one's enemies in advance than to be surprised by them. If he knew what manner of monsters lurked in the darkness, he'd be forewarned, and forewarned was forearmed, or something like that, and really, anything was better than not knowing what could be out there, watching him.

"There's nothing out there," he told himself again.

The fog lifted and curled, and Carl jumped when he realised a man was standing beneath the lamppost. Tall, wearing a cocked hat and a long coat with the collar turned up to hide the lower part of his face, the man stared at Carl with a curiously intent gaze.

Carl tried to smile. It came out more like a grimace. Folding his hands neatly in his lap, he wondered how to address the man. Perhaps he should be ladylike and wait for the gentleman to speak to him first. That was the right thing to do in a social situation. Not that there was anything sociable about this situation, Carl reminded himself. A ha'penny whore sitting on a park bench after dark and a brooding stranger beneath the gaslight... it sounded like the plot of a penny dreadful, lurid and sensationalist.

The stranger took a step towards him. The coat flared out, and Carl caught a glimpse of scuffed, knee-length boots. There was no sound of footsteps, no sound from the swirl of the coat. The stranger advanced, his face very pale, his eyes black and shining.

Carl swallowed. His hands clenched. He was about to be propositioned again, he just knew it.

The stranger took another step closer.

Something rustled in the bushes. Something bigger than a bird or a squirrel. The stranger hesitated, and Carl shifted on the bench to peer into the darkness. He squinted through the meandering shapes of the fog but saw nothing, and when he turned back, the stranger had vanished, just like that. As if he'd melted away into the mist.

Carl frowned. Something very peculiar was going on. Something suspicious. Something—

"Boo."

Carl shrieked and leapt up, dislodging the bonnet from his head as he flailed at his attacker. He got caught up in his skirts and tumbled to the ground in an undignified heap. Hearing laughter, he sat up, lifted his bonnet, and glared at Gabriel, who slouched on the bench with a casual insouciance quite unbecoming to the situation.

"Really, Van Helsing, must you be so childish as to creep up behind people and scare them half to death?" Carl snapped as he got to his feet and brushed gravel and dirt from his frock.

Gabriel raised his eyebrows. "And there I was thinking I was coming to your rescue."

"Rescue?" Carl spluttered. "Rescue, indeed. Why on earth did you think I needed rescuing? I haven't seen anyone since the fog came down, except a gentleman in a long coat."

"Long coat, huh." Gabriel made himself comfortable on the bench. "Did this gentleman say anything to you?"

"Not really." Carl sat beside him. "Not at all, actually. It was all rather mysterious. I think he was shy."

Gabriel snorted. "Shy?"

"Yes. You know." Carl indicated his dress. "I think he wasn't sure of the correct etiquette when approaching an unchaperoned lady sitting in a park after nightfall."

Another snort. "Of course."

"Well, he's gone now. You probably scared him off."

Gabriel nodded. "That was my intention."

Carl gave him a narrow look. "Why? Obviously he wasn't Mr Hyde."

"No, he wasn't." Gabriel wore an odd expression. "It was John Austin."

Carl sniffed. "An old friend?"

"A highwayman," Gabriel said. "But a good sort. He never harmed women—and as you're dressed as a woman..."

"Oh, please." Carl huffed, then sucked in a sharp breath. "Van Helsing. Explain, please, why you're using the past tense when talking about this acquaintance of yours."

"John's no longer with us. Not in any corporeal sense, anyway." Gabriel's teeth flashed in a grin. "He was the last man hanged on Tyburn Tree in 1783."

"Then why on earth is he here?" Carl heard his voice rise in pitch.

"Because," Gabriel jerked a thumb behind him, "the Tyburn gallows used to stand not twenty feet away near Marble Arch. At least sixty thousand people were hanged there. Some of them are still here. You might say they were hanging around."

"Sixty thousand." Carl stared into the night and drew his shawl tighter around his shoulders. Then the enormity of what they were discussing hit home, and he sat up straight. "Van Helsing! You mean I was almost accosted by a—by a _ghost_?"

Gabriel laughed. "I told you there were other things out there in the night. One day, you might just believe me."


End file.
